


Hangover

by inquisitor_tohru



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Drunkenness, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Hangover, Harrow's Adventures in Lyctorhood, Harrowhark the Ninth Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Intoxication, POV Second Person, Quadruple Drabble, Referenced John/Augustine/Mercymorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/pseuds/inquisitor_tohru
Summary: And you, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, once Reverend Daughter of Drearburh, now Ninth Saint to serve the King Undying, had onehellof a hangover.
Relationships: John Gaius | Necrolord Prime & Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40
Collections: write to my heart





	Hangover

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the **write to my heart** shiritori community. My starter came from "So...I was right."

"...was right after all." God poured himself a fresh cup of tea, acting all the while as if you hadn't seen Augustine's lips upon his throat or Mercymorn's mouth on his mouth, her fists in his shirt, at the dinner table. Your own tea was cold, forgotten, untouched.

You'd lost track of what God was saying, but seemingly so had he. He was rambling even more than usual, and you suspected he was still stupendously drunk, despite the rather sobering events involving the incinerator and the walking corpse. Actually, he'd probably seen a lot of crazy bullshit over ten thousand odd years, so maybe it just wasn't _that_ weird of a night for him. In any case, he was possibly, maybe, _almost definitely_ still drunk.

And you, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, once Reverend Daughter of Drearburh, now Ninth Saint to serve the King Undying, had one _hell_ of a hangover.

This was so, so far from what you'd imagined lyctorhood to be. Everything you'd done, everything you'd gone through to achieve that ultimate power...and you'd ended up with a mere _fraction_ of it and a weird dysfunctional family with way too many siblings. One of whom you killed before you even left Canaan House, another who was trying to kill _you,_ and two who were apparently hooking up with dear old dad, a.k.a. _God._ And Ianthe, but with all due respect, which is _none,_ fuck Ianthe. (Please do not fuck Ianthe.)

You tried not to stare when God realised, rather belatedly, that all his buttons were _still_ in the wrong holes. There's a joke in there somewhere, if you cared to look for it. But you were far too occupied with ignoring the fact that God was this sweaty, disheveled, horrifically corporeal, more human than human _man._ Whose name was John. Fucking _John._ It wouldn't matter if you died when the Heralds descended or whether you lived beside God for a thousand, five thousand, _ten thousand_ years. You'd never be able to get over fucking _John,_ and who'd hold that against you?

"I'm so sorry, Harrow," he said, all sad black eyes, though you weren't entirely sure what for. So you just nodded, which was a mistake - your brain felt like it was mashing into your skull with each movement. You could practically hear the awful, fleshy sounds come pouring out of your ears.

Ah, no. That was blood.


End file.
